


see, i’m smiling

by safflowerseason



Category: Veep (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 22:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safflowerseason/pseuds/safflowerseason
Summary: The wake is less of a shitshow than Amy might have expected. The aftermath of 7.06.





	see, i’m smiling

**Author's Note:**

> There are only so many absurdist plot shenanigans I can handle, after all. 
> 
> Note: I didn’t rewatch the whole episode while writing this (just the Dan/Amy/Leyla scene approximately fifty times, like a real masochist), so the chronology of this might be off. Then again, Veep’s whole timeline this season has made absolutely no sense, so I get to do what I want.

* * *

 

 

and the point is, Jamie,

that you can’t spend a single day that’s not about you

and you

and nothing but you

miles and piles of you

pushing through windows and bursting through walls

en route to the sky.

And I…

 

\- _the last five years_

 

* * *

 

 The wake is less of a shitshow than Amy might have expected.

The news that the governor of Iowa is currently attending the funeral for the father of a local New Hamphire politician, currently third place in the presidential primary, causes a bunch of local political bigwigs to descend on Jonah’s mother’s house in order to pay their respects (to Richard _and_ to Jonah, Amy is pleased to note): union leaders and party fundraisers and logging titans with money to burn. So the wake has basically turned into a giant ass-kissing schmooze-fest of a political event, a who’s-who of interchangeable granite-faced Bible-thumping Pilgrim-descendants in their eighties who control New Hampshire politics. 

Jonah’s mother manages to successfully hide Beth in the back bedroom before she can forcibly make out with anyone else (she does manage to get through the mayor, the principal of her late father’s school and the local ax-throwing champion before the Secret Service agents tackle her). The party gets so big that it eventually spills out onto the back lawn, and they have to send Clay and his friends out for more beer (he already has a fake ID, which does not seem to concern anyone nearly as much as it should.) 

The new governor’s chief of staff is, of course, in his element.

Meanwhile, the governor in question remains completely ignorant of the political hay to be made and has so far spent the entire afternoon playing video games with Jonah while simultaneously counseling him through Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief. 

For her part, Amy spends the wake holed up on the back porch with a triple whiskey (Jonah’s mother knows her alcohol, that’s for damn sure), watching the hype grow on Twitter for their Kentucky rally tomorrow and reading articles about Selina’s international legal woes. She should really be schmoozing alongside Dan—someone on Jonah’s team has to, and she’s gotten surprisingly good at it—but she’s not in the mood to compete. Her campaign strategy bypasses these snow-munchers, anyway. 

Needless to say, that doesn’t stop Dan from dragging people over to meet her approximately every six minutes, introducing her as “Jonah Ryan’s campaign mastermind” and talking about how far back all four of them go, her and Jonah and Dan and Richard. Eventually she just stands up and leans against the porch railing and waits for him to reappear, like clockwork, with more people for her to meet. Like some stupid golden retriever who keeps bringing her balls for them to play fetch with. 

“You know, I was the one who first introduced Richard and Jonah, remember Ames?” he says excitedly, touching her back as he angles her more firmly toward whichever pussy-grabbing snowmobile kingpin she’s supposed to charming right now.

“I do, Dan.” She smiles graciously and tilts her head to the side so that her cheek almost brushes his shoulder. His fingers tighten briefly around her waist. “He used to be my assistant back in the White House, and now look at him. Jonah Ryan has an eye for political genius, I can tell you that much.”

Dan grins down at her, clearly admiring how easily she’s seducing all these politicians into getting behind Jonah Ryan. He’s so fucking gleeful right now, completely high on his own political good fortune (and, knowing Dan, he has definitely managed to attribute it all to his own brilliance) and she can practically see the wheels turning behind his head. He hasn’t looked at her like this since she had gotten the call from Teddy with the offer to take over Jonah’s campaign, when he stared at her all cunning and excited and told her to ask about the campaign manager position. In that moment, he had felt just like the Dan she knew, the one who actually gave a shit about her even though he was a shit.

Of course, he had been happy for other reasons, too.

Out of the corner of her eye, Amy can see Leyla in a far corner of the lawn, nursing a glass of wine, beautifully polished and neatly abandoned, the perfect arm candy for these kinds of events. It’s probably half the reason Dan is dating her, and yet…he is _dating_ her. He _flew_ her out here with him _._ For a fucking funeral. When apparently the whole fucking thing is still recent enough that the very fact that he has a girlfriend _is still so weird to say out loud._ Honestly, Amy blacks out a little every time she remembers the goofy, sweet smile on his face when he said it. It was like he’d been body snatched by a fucking alien right before her very eyes. 

Amy has never, ever wanted Dan to look like that at her, even in her more honest moments of admitting what she wanted from him—googly eyes and sweet nothings aren’t exactly their fucking style—but right now she would give up a whole fucking lot just for him to hold her hand even one time. It is extremely humiliating.

( _Ames, this is my girlfriend…Ames, this is my girlfriend…Ames, this is my girlfriend…_ it might never stop echoing in her head.) 

And yet…he obviously has not evolved a single fucking inch, if the way he was ogling her ass just four days ago is any indication. (Amy truly hates herself for how emphatically she did not hate his reaction.) God, he’s had to have finally gone full psychopath to actually date this woman, a woman Amy had actually remembered with a detached kind of fondness before this morning, as a professional person who had made a generally terrible day slightly less terrible.

Amy doesn’t often think about the baby-that-might-have-been. It was a hard decision, but it wasn’t the wrong decision. She’s happier than she’s been in, well…a fucking long while. It hadn’t been the right time, for a lot of reasons. Whatever she had told Dan—and she had gotten pretty fucking honest with him, right there at the end—she was always going to want more support from him than he was interested in giving.

But the question had always been there, at the back of her mind. Maybe a different time would be…different.

And, well, she had been explosively fucking wrong about that, too. Because Dan Egan is now _dating_ the woman who sucked their fucking baby right out of her uterus in the first place, so clearly a different time and place for the two of them would not change a fucking thing.

God, at least she can fucking drink her way through the afternoon. That is one thing she can thank Leyla for.

Eventually, there’s a lull in the relentless networking, and Amy sags back against the porch railing with a little sigh. She can’t wait to go back to her hotel and drown her feelings in…something, she doesn’t know what, more alcohol or a bubble bath or some shitty reality TV. Maybe she’ll smother herself with a pillow…that would certainly take care of the nauseous sensation in her stomach, like she’s swallowed a bunch of live beetles. Fuck, she can’t even do that, not until the nomination fight is over, anyway, she’s not giving Dan the satisfaction of offing herself before Jonah wins the primary.

“Hi.”

It’s Leyla. Amy does a very bad job, probably, of concealing her dismay.

“Oh.” she say flatly. “Hi. Did you need something?”

She cannot possibly fathom why Leyla needs to speak to her any more than she already has. This woman vacuumed a fucking baby out of her and is now dating her ex-baby daddy. For one wild half-second, Amy thinks to herself, _haven’t you fucking taken enough from me_?

“Oh, no, it’s just…” Leyla glances down into her wine, and then back up, looking faintly embarrassed. “It was a bit awkward, earlier, and I just wanted to apologize. Dan can be so forgetful.”

Automatically, Amy bursts into laughter, high and sharp like it’s been stiched together from pieces of broken glass, and for the first time, maybe, she understands how people used to call her _shrill._ She wonders if it’s possible to self-immolate on the spot. It might be the only way to ever forget the sight of Dan with his arm around Leyla’s waist at the funeral, which has somehow become permanently imprinted on the back of her eyelids.

“Oh, you don’t have to apologize for Dan. I mean, he’s Dan. You’re dating him.” If she says it enough times, it might begin to seem real.

Amy purposefully goes back to Twitter and waits for Leyla to leave, but she perversely does not. She just stands there, tall and thin with her impossibly glossy hair and infuriatingly placid expression, watching Amy like she’s back in that fucking clinic with Dan at her side, ranting about how much she hates relaxing while he cracked jokes about industrial-strength vag vacuums. What a fucking pair they must have been. Maybe Amy’s completely misread the situation and this woman is just far, far stupider than she looks.

“Was there something else?” she finally asks again, through gritted teeth.

“You know, Amy…” Leyla begins, and with a dull thud in her bones, Amy recognizes that infuriatingly soft and sympathetic _I-am-a-medical-professional_ voice. She is always going to remember it because the sound is indelibly associated with one of the hardest days of her life. “During your procedure, I thought your eye muscles seemed very swollen. If you have time, I would suggest scheduling an appointment to get your thyroid examin—“

Forget self-immolation. Amy is going to burn down the entire house.

“Respectfully, _Ley-la,”_ she hisses, her fingers clenching so tightly around her whiskey glass she’s surprised it doesn’t shatter. But she has to refrain somehow from hurling it at Leyla’s perfect face. “You are currently dating a man who is obsessed with abortion procedures in the exact same way that Ted Bundy was obsessed with Florida sorority sisters, so maybe back the fuck off _my_ health, okay, and when you get back to that fucking skid mark of a state you call home, do yourself a favor and look up the number for nearest mall shrink.”

To her credit, Leyla has the fucking social grace to look embarrassed for maybe the first time all day.

“I didn’t know you were so into him.” she says after a short beat. Amy doesn’t bother to correct her, because it’s not like she’s been exactly subtle about the whole fucking thing. “You had a very…antagonistic energy, that day in the clinic.” 

“Well, he seems to _really_ like you.” Amy says without thinking, and then wonders if it’s possible to sink any lower than she has today. Maybe the triple whiskey on an empty stomach has finally gone to her head. What a moment for her to suddenly develop diarrhea of the mouth. “I have known Dan a fucking long time, and I have always been impressed by the fact that he has learned absolutely nothing in all these years.” Of course, the same thing could be said for her; her own personal stupidity over Dan Egan has becoming truly staggering.

“So…cheers to you if you’re the one who finally broke through the man’s fucking reptilian brain.”

And she clinks her whiskey tumbler against Leyla’s wine glass. Bottoms fucking up.

“Oh, have you known each other a long time?” Leyla asks, sounding interested in spite of her self. Amy doesn’t blame her. One thing is for fucking certain, Dan has told this woman literally nothing specific about the last ten years of his life if she’s still here.

“A _long_ time.” Amy mumbles, turning away and staring out over the green backyard, the clusters of dark-suited guests and the children running underfoot. She closes her eyes briefly against the sight, hoping against hope that Dan will have suddenly been struck from the earth by a silent bolt of lightning. She opens them again—no fucking luck.

“I am fully aware he was a bit of a playboy before he moved to Iowa.”

“You mean meeting him in an abortion clinic didn’t give it away?”

And incredibly, miraculously, like clouds parting after a rainstorm, Amy suddenly finds the entire situation impossibly _fucking hilarious_. She is standing in Jonah Ryan’s childhood backyard with the woman who performed her abortion, an event she is going to remember until the day she fucking _dies_ , and the woman is dating _Dan._

And it’s so startlingly clear that she has no fucking idea who Dan even is _,_ when Amy knows _all_ of him, every single rusty nook and cranny in his soot-black soul, and somehow _that_ is what keeps drawing her back in, over and over again, hoping for…she doesn’t even know anymore. Something that they had briefly teetered on the edge of once, all the way back in that shitty hotel hallway in Carson City, when she had known with every fucking molecule that Dan _wanted_ her in some real and dangerous way, different than how he wanted other women. She would have staked her fucking life on it. (In a way, she had.)

Across the lawn, Dan’s deep in conversation with the New Hampshire state treasurer. He catches her eye and smiles at her, the same wild, deranged grin he had the night Selina became president.

Entirely on impulse, Amy forgets herself and bares her teeth back at him in an equally sharp smile. The thought comes to her, suddenly. _What would Dan do?_

He annihilated her fucking engagement on live television, for starters. The least she can do is return the favor.

Or rather—she can be fucking _honest._ Just like she’s honest about Jonah Ryan. Nothing like _honesty,_ between two fucking friends.

Amy straightens up, shakes out her hair, and smiles the smile she usually saves for hapless journalists during her TV appearances, all sugared poison and candy-coated knife-blades. She turns it on Dan's new girlfriend now with a special kind of ferocity.

“Oh _no_ , you definitely don’t need to worry, Dan’s seriously dated _a lot_ of women before you.” Amy begins, and for the first time, she sounds as unruffled and polished as Leyla. “Mostly because they made him look good or because he needed a job or because he was bored, but you know…all’s fair, right?”

“I guess,” Leyla agrees.

“You know,” Amy begins, in this _just-between-us-girls_ voice, all intimate and twinkly, like a fork clinking against a champagne glass. “Dan once fucked my sister because he thought she could get him a job at CBS News, when actually she works at C _V_ S, like, the drug store? And it was the same night that I basically confessed that I liked him. Can you believe it?! It was just so perfectly _Dan._ But of course, you’re dating him, I’m sure you’re not surprised.”

Across the lawn, right on cue, Dan bursts into maniacal laughter at some undoubtedly racist or sexist joke courtesy of the state treasurer. For once in Amy’s life where Dan is fucking concerned, it feels like all the planets have aligned on her side. There is truly no other way to describe the flash of inspiration that leads her to say what comes out of her mouth next. 

“And then, he fucked her _for the second time_ the night before he met _you._ ”

There’s no fucking need to explain the context of _that_ statement. Leyla’s face shifts into genuinely dismayed surprise, and Amy smiles more widely than ever before, the exact same killer grin that she can see stretched across Dan’s face all the way on the other side of the backyard.

“Isn’t that fucking _adorable_.”

Leyla puts down her glass and glances back out across the lawn. There’s a single crease marring her perfectly smooth forehead.

“But don’t worry.” And Amy reaches out and puts her hand on Leyla’s arm, arranges her face into the most bullshit concerned expression she has. And it’s pretty damn good, even better than Leyla’s, because she works in American fucking politics. “Maybe he has…changed?”

She makes sure to say it in the exact same tone and inflection that Leyla used to ask her about her follow-up appointment, and Amy can tell that the other woman notices, because she is not fucking stupid. Her dark eyes actually widen, maybe even in real apprehension. Amy is sure she looks pretty wild right now, with her dramatic eye-makeup that’s undoubtedly starting to smear at the end of a long day, and her psycho-shark grin, but she doesn’t give a fuck.

“ _Awww,_ ” Dan’s suddenly looming over the pair of them, an expression of smug, saccharine delight plastered all over his stupid face. “I’m so glad you girls are having the chance to get to know one another.”

He wraps his arm around Amy’s shoulder in a very buddy-buddy type of way, so enthusiastic she actually drops her phone. She halfway expects him to start giving her a noogie or slap her ass or something. It’s all very _watch me go fuck Mike’s boss, Ames!_ of him, and Amy finds herself laughing ruefully as much from the faded memory as from Dan’s complete lack of self-awareness.

“Ames knows where _all_ the bodies are buried.” he tells Leyla, with an extremely conspiratorial grin.

“Uh huh!” Amy adds, so piercingly bright she turns all heads within a fifteen-foot radius, and then, because she’s so divinely inspired in this moment she actually scrounges up the courage to playfully slap him on the chest. “That’s just what I was telling her, _buddy._ ”

For just one second, everything slows between them. Dan’s hand slides from her shoulder to her lower back, pulling her infinitesimally closer, so that she has to arch in his arms to meet his gaze, which is dark and exhultant and strangely possessive. All Amy can do is stare right back, her lips parting, warmth suddenly pooling dangerously in the depths of her stomach. Everything’s gone blurry except for Dan’s face, the sound of his heartbeat against her palm thundering through her ears.

And then the moment is over, and Dan releases her so suddenly he practically knocks her back against the porch railing, immediately reaching for Leyla. Amy, feeling like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over her head, realizes that she’s forgotten to breathe for the past minute. She takes an embarrassingly loud gulp of air and practically chokes on it. 

“Yeah, she was saying something to that effect.” Leyla says, coolly. Her dark eyes are flickering between Dan and Amy like she’s doing some rapid math in her head.

“Listen, babe,” Dan says excitedly, completely ignorant of his girlfriend’s calculating expression. “We have to fly back this evening to Iowa, but since it’s a government plane, I’m not _really_ sure I can get you on it. Richard’s a fucking stickler for ethics rules. So you’ll have to fly back commercial by yourself.” He pulls a dramatically tragic face. “Sorry. But Richard is going to get sworn in _on_ the plane, babe. Like fucking LBJ!”

Amy smirks, bends to pick up her phone, and gently squeezes past between the two of them.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmurs, and slips quietly back into the house.

Jonah is still ensconced with Richard on the couch, completely engrossed in their video game, and he doesn’t even notice when she perches herself on the arm of the couch. Half-gnawed cake pops and beers are strewn across the coffee table. Not for the first time, Amy reflects that if she actually gets this man elected, she’ll have so much glorious freedom do whatever the fuck she wants to this public toilet of a nation. Nuking it is just the fucking start.

“Jonah,” she announces harshly, snapping her fingers under his nose. “I’m leaving. Make sure you’re ready _on fucking time_ tomorrow. Secret Service says the Kentucky event is sold out and the anti-vax demographic isn’t exactly known for their fucking patience or general ability to listen to anyone who’s not Andrew fucking Wakefield. If we make them wait too long, they’ll recontaminate every state south of the Mason-Dixon line out of fucking spite.”

“Ugh, _fine._ ” Jonah mutters. “But can we go to Iowa next? We won’t be able to finish this game before Richard has to leave.”

“I think Richard might have a lot on his plate now, what with being the new governor of an entire state, even if the state is Iowa. And we still have to figure out where the fuck to store Beth for the next few weeks.” Not to mention that even all these years later, Amy still wants to strangle the life out of fucking Richard Splett every time he opens his goddamn mouth. 

“Oh, I can find a place for her if you like.” Richard interjects cheerfully. “You might not know this, but Iowa actually has some of the most stringent rehabilitation facility laws in the country. You can basically have Beth committed for life and no one will ask _any_ questions.”

Amy smiles thinly. “That’s very useful, Richard, thank you, but I think somewhere in New Hampshire will be just fine.”

She glances around the deserted living room. “By the way, where’s Chip, or Chase, or whatever the fuck his name is…we absolutely need him to take him with us tomorrow, since Beth won’t be there.” 

“Clay.” Jonah corrects her. 

Amy furrows her brow. “Are you sure?”

“No.” he admits.

“It’s Clay.” Richard reassures him, and Amy refrains from smacking him upside the head.

“Just make sure he’s ready with you tomorrow.” She stands off the couch and grabs her purse. “Richard, congratulations again, on becoming a governor.”

“Thank you, Ms. Brookheimer.” he replies. “By the way, if I do say so myself, you look _really_ smashing in that dress. I’m not sure if this is relevant information for you, but I think Dan was noticing it earlier.” 

Her stomach does this truly humiliating girly swoop. “Oh, shut the fuck up.” she snaps and stalks out of the living room.

“ _Oooh,_ Richard, you totally got her. _”_ Jonah cackles behind her, and it’s the last thing she hears before she slams the front door.

The front yard of Jonah’s old house is mercifully deserted, except for the garden gnomes and the blue jays going to town in the crumbling birdbath. Everything is sun-baked and warm and there’s not even any city noise, like there is in D.C. or New York, just the sound of the wind. Jonah’s small Secret Service detail has parked their SUVs about a half-block down the street, leaving the sidewalk in front of the house clear (it’s pretty hilarious how little they really give a shit about Jonah’s safety. He doesn’t even have any death threats so far, though, so it’s not like they have to worry _too_ much.) Amy has spent more time in New Hampshire in the past year than she ever imagined she would, and it turns out if you hang out in this fucking state long enough, all the amazingly fresh fir-scented mountain air goes to your head and you start believing anything is fucking possible, crazy things like electing Jonah Ryan to the presidency or that Dan Egan is ever going to go back to the way he used to be.

Still, away from the party and everyone who might fucking _need_ something from her, Amy feels at least seventy percent more relaxed. Fuck Leyla, there is nothing wrong with her fucking thyroid and she can relax just fine as long as some off-brand Amal Clooney isn’t shoving a metal tube up her vagina and she’s safely out of reach from the fucking Joker of American politics.

Amy’s barely made it halfway down the front walk before he comes barreling after her.

“Ames! Wait up!”

Of fucking course.

“Yeah, Dan?” she sighs, mentally bracing herself for whatever emotional grenade he’s about to blow up in her face yet again. Immediately every single fucking muscle in her body strings up tight again. Maybe he’s gotten engaged in the last three minutes and wants her input on the ring. That would track with how fast he and Leyla are apparently moving. And it would _definitely_ fucking track with the way today has gone.

“What a day, huh?” Dan says instead, coming so close she can count the freckles on his nose. He blows out his cheeks slightly in a disbelieving expression, like maybe they’re back in the White House at the end of another long day of rescuing Selina from herself. Thinking about that time in her life makes Amy want to scream long and loud for reasons she can’t even fully identify.

“Mmm.” she acknowledges crisply, folding her arms in front of her—mostly for protection, and also to push up her breasts just a little bit more. Dan’s gaze immediately shifts five inches south. Ha. She can have this, at least. “You must be feeling very pleased.”

“It’s pretty crazy, huh?” he says excitedly, raising his eyes to meet hers again. “Richard and Jonah…on the way up. Can you believe they used to fucking work for _us_?”

“How the tables have fucking turned.” Amy agrees, before remembering they’re not _actually_ back in the White House and she needs to get her fucking emotional shit together. “Did you come out here just to say that?” she asks him then, the corner of her mouth tilting into a smirk against her will. “Cute, Dan, but you’ve never shown a single streak of sentimentality unless there was something in it for you, so fucking spill.”

Dan grins at her all lopsidedly, like he’s just so tickled she can see right through him. Fuck, she hates how good _winning_ looks on him, black eyes alight, dark hair a bit messy and his sculpted cheekbones flush with color. He looks like he wants to sweep her up without a second thought and carry her away. _He is dating your abortionist,_ she reminds herself fiercely. “I just wanted to say,” he begins, “that we should keep in touch more before the convention, you know.”

“I imagine we will.” Amy replies, a bit more stiffly. “Since my candidate and your boss are the best of fucking friends.”

“Seriously,” Dan continues, clearly warming to his theme. “You know it’s going to be crazy in the run-up to the nomination, and if you manage to get in just a few more primary wins, you’ll have a real fucking shot, and we could—“

Amy cuts him off. She’s not in the fucking mood to stand here and listen to Dan try and strategize with her like it’s two fucking years ago and they’re running Jonah Ryan’s first campaign. “If you’re looking for a VP offer in exchange for your super delegate vote, try Selina, she’s never been able to resist Richard.”

“Selina fucking droned an elephant.” Dan counters. “Not good for Richard’s brand, Amy, he has a degree in veterinary science _,_ remember?”

Amy has to press her lips together _really_ hard to keep from laughing at that one, and she knows Dan can tell, because he smirks and adds, “Come on, Ames, you know I’m right, I’m just saying, don’t block any calls from the 515 area code.”

A year ago, Amy would have found all of this insanely flattering and exciting, except that she (somehow, pathetically) has not yet blocked Dan’s number and so she is perfectly fucking aware that he has not called her one single time since she left Selina’s campaign after having aborted his baby. And the only fucking reason he is out here right now is because he thinks she might be able to do something for him politically.

At least that probably gives her a one-up on Leyla, who can do jack-shit for Dan politically except make him look more approachable to normal humans. But only in the coastal states…Amy doubts that dating an OB-GYN plays that well in Iowa itself. Frankly, she’s surprised that Dan didn’t take that into fucking consideration.

“Have you actually changed your cell number? Wow, Iowa must have _really_ fucking grown on you, Dan. I always thought state politics was a better fit for you than Washington, and it seems I was right.” The idea of Dan, with his designer suits and fancy gyms and his general disdain for any place he couldn’t order food at any time of the day or night, hopping around bum-fuck Iowa is maybe the most hilariously pathetic thing he's ever done. She really hasn’t given him enough shit about it, considering how incessantly he teased her about Nevada.

“Please.” Dan scoffs. “We’re not staying in fucking Iowa a second longer than we have to if I have anything to say about it.”

“Does your girlfriend know that?” Amy retorts. When she sees how his eyes flash at her, so obviously pleased that she was the one to bring it up first, now that they’re finally alone, she immediately wants to dig herself a fucking hole to China. “By the way, a funeral is a _really_ sweet first trip away together, seriously Dan, your sense for the romantic is truly something.”

Dan just shrugs at that. “I wanted her here.”

Amy waits, but he doesn’t follow it up with some vulgar comment about her ass or how good she is at sucking him off, and everything south of her lungs immediately turns to lead and plummets around her knees.

The tiny little high she was riding on earlier—networking with Dan like only they could, spilling the beans to Leyla—dissolves so suddenly she’s left breathless. That sensation from before, out on the porch with Leyla apologizing for Dan’s _forgetfulness_ —like she had fallen into a vat of acid—returns in full force.

“Sweet.” she manages to choke out, her voice wavering like it had at the funeral. “I’m so, _so_ happy you finally found someone to help you face the future. It’s really perfect timing.” Desperately, she clears her throat and reverts back to her TV voice, as cool and sharp as lemonade. It’s fucking hilarious how safe she finds that persona. Maybe Dan was on to something with his stalled tv career, after all.

“Well it’s not like there’s any other fuckable women in Iowa.” he muses frankly. “And it gets Richard off my back with the fucking lectures about sexual harassment.”  

“And she already has an in at the abortion clinic, so you won’t even have to wait to schedule an appointment when that special time comes.”

Dan winks at her. “Exactly, Ames.”

 _Okay,_ Amy tells herself, a bit numbly. _You get to be done with this conversation now_. Time for her king-size bed and all the alcohol in the mini-bar. She has been standing out here, surrounded by Nancy Ryan’s special edition collection of porcelain garden gnomes, pretending she can talk to Dan like it’s old fucking times, when he expects her to accept without question the fact that he just randomly decided to date the woman who aborted their fucking _baby_.

“See you later, Dan.” she mutters, and turns for the cars yet again. But he doesn’t seem to want to let her go.

“Ames, _wait,_ Jesus, slow the fuck down.” He actually reaches out and grabs her elbow, his hand sliding down to wrap around her wrist, and his touch is like a fucking brand, so painfully electric that Amy yanks her arm away like she’s been scalded, so forcefully that even Dan notices it.

“I’m off the clock, okay, so if you don’t have anything else to say, we’re done, so please—“

“Ames, _seriously,_ just don’t do anything without coming to us first, Richard’s got a shit-ton of leverage in the party now—“

“Oh my fucking _god.“_ Amy explodes at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I don’t have to run _shit_ by you, Dan, you’re not my fucking deputy, you’re not _anything,_ you’re a guy who ran to Richard Splett for a job literally four fucking minutes ago because you were fired for the third fucking time by Selina Meyer and for maybe, like, the ninth time in the past seven years. Only _you_ could emerge from that and think you’re suddenly the fucking king of presidential politics.”

“What?!” And Dan actually looks caught off-guard for the first time since he arrived in New Hampshire. “Selina didn’t fire me.” 

Amy just laughs derisively at him—god, he is so pathetically stupid. “Oh yeah, you _voluntarily_ left the front-runner’s campaign.” she says, laying on the sarcasm as thickly as possible. “You were absolutely fired, you fucking dummy. Does Leyla know that you’re actually not very good at your job? You should probably tell her before you propose.”

For the first time, he looks angry with her, and it feels insanely fucking good, to finally get a real reaction from him. “So what if I was fired? Selina’s damaged goods now. Elephant-killer, remember?”

“ _Wow._ ” Amy comments, approving in spite of herself. “I’m stealing that, and we’re going to put it on a bunch of fucking campaign t-shirts.”

“Wha—it was my fucking idea, Ames!” he says furiously, watching her make a note in her phone. Seriously, if Amy looked up right now and found herself back in the halls of the EEOB, bickering with Dan, she wouldn’t even fucking blink. Purgatory is just going to be her and Dan, fighting until fucking Beelzebub and the Leviathan shriek at them to shut the fuck up.

“Some of us are still running in real elections, not waiting for the fucking line of succession to move up in the world.”

“Who gives a shit _how_ anyone gets anywhere?!” Dan counters. “Richard Splett is going all the way, baby, and you know it.”

“He does seem to be ignoring your advice at every turn, so you know what, he just fucking might.” Amy cracks, and Dan is so caught off-guard by the insult that he actually _laughs,_ like, really laughs, so purely elated that the strength of sound actually dissolves all the crackling animosity between them. He hasn’t looked so delighted by her since the night she told him she was thinking about having the baby, and their situation is so fucking absurd that Amy actually laughs a little with him. God, she needs to follow her own fucking advice and go talk to someone about how severely fucked up her head is.

As Dan’s laughter subsides, she exhales slowly, to try and feel a little less hysterical than she currently does, and the sound is only a little bit shaky. “I’m going, Dan.”

He nods at her, smiling crookedly. “Yeah.”

This time, she makes all the way it to the sidewalk before he tries to reel her back in. 

“Hey, Ames.” he calls after her, almost lazy.

“ _Wha-at_?!” she groans in exasperation.

Dan shoves his hands in his pockets and looks her up and down. “Really, I’m _loving_ the new look, it’s too fucking bad I have to fly back this evening, otherwise, I _think_ I could get Leyla on board with a threesome.”

Right on cue, Amy experiences that familiar clench of nauseating amusement right in her gut, like it’s making her sick how much she loves him like this. It _is_ sick. From somewhere deep inside, she manages to throw up a real laugh; it’s a bit hollow, but she gets there all the same. 

“ _Please,_ if you’re going to have a threesome at all, the third person is supposed to be a complete fucking rando, not someone you still haven’t kicked permanently out of your life despite all your best fucking efforts. Fucking duh.”

“Ames,” Dan says. “Are you really out there having casual threesomes and not inviting me?” 

That wildly impressed look in his eyes, like he can barely believe she’s real…that’s what makes her tell him.

“You know what, Dan, if you actually wanted to get a drink with me tonight, you would have discovered for yourself just what I’m down for.” She says it as clearly as possible, looking him straight in the eyes so he can’t mistake her meaning, and it surprises her how playful she sounds, almost arch, like she’s purposefully tossed a diamond in his lap (or, in a more apt metaphor for the two of them, some really fantastic campaign tip).

Amy doesn’t give a fuck anymore what he knows or guesses or fucking refuses to acknowledge about their relationship and how she feels about him. There are babies and ex-fiancés and siblings and ex-presidents all tangled up in their fucking mess, and surprise, surprise, surprise, it turns out there is no fucking limit to this emotional black hole she’s found herself in. She might as well throw it all at his fucking face before she starts trying to burn her way out. 

Dan’s eyes grow wide, and he gets this naked expression of furious intrigue all over his face, one dark eyebrow curling into that perfect arch she knows by heart, so well she could trace it in her fucking sleep.

“Well fuck, Ames, why didn’t you say it like that before?”

“You wanted to introduce me to your girlfriend.” she reminds him flatly, and then turns on her heel for the third and final time. “Goodbye for now, Dan.”

“See you at the convention!” he shouts after her, and it’s not quite as careless as he usually sounds. Amy can feel his eyes roving all over her ass again.

And god fucking help her, she might even sway her hips a little more than usual as she walks away toward the row of sleek black SUVs, in order to really rub it in his face what he’s giving up. Dan’s always been a sucker for curves, after all, and she has a nomination to win.   


* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> It seems a bit silly to post this before the final episode, which I’m sure will go off in some crazy unexpected direction, but oh well, I literally couldn’t focus on anything else until I wrote it. At this rate, Dan will have willingly fathered Leyla's triplets by the end of the finale, so I’m preparing for anything.


End file.
